Chapter 37
I press my hand against the wall, letting it absorb my weight as I pull my lungs full of breath—so cold and crisp this far below ground, like gulping air from an ancient well. “Hugth att, aht mahn uhn-ah.”
The words are gravel coming out, spoken past a threadbare throat as the wall dimples to the tune of Bulder’s smooth response.
A hole just the right size for me to stab a torch into, the wooden stave etched in silver runes that make it stand out in the dull, powdery light.
Runes that immortalize its flammability.
I flick the lid of my weald and tilt the flame until it’s clawing at the rope coiled around the torch. Ignos registers the offering, seethes in ravenous glee, and wraps his maw around it.
A warm glow ignites the small slumbersuite. Bare of sunlight, yes, but so far beneath the surface that it’ll be one of the only safe spots to slumber once the moonfalls come to pass.
I push off, wobbling. Don’t dare step away from the wall until my head stops spinning.
Slowly, I move through a small common area—freshly forged and in desperate need of a sweep. Simple but practical, complete with a fire pit hollowed in the ground and a rim of tiered seating.
A few cushions will make all the difference. That’s what Mah used to say.
I brush some of the stone dust from my hair and beard, moving down the stubby entrance tunnel toward the sound of flowing water. As I emerge onto the gloomy underground riverbank, another bout of dizziness knocks me to a crouch. “Dammit,” I mutter, eyes on the ground.
I focus on filling my lungs in steady draws, distantly aware of village folk moving along the riverside path to my left, hauling soft furnishings, personal belongings, and urns of preserves into the dwellings I’ve spent the past few daes shaping.
Near to a hundred of them along the banks of this deep underground river, arched bridges connecting either side that’ll hopefully invoke a sense of community and keep folk anchored to their sanity.
Despite the preparation, I’m somberly aware that many won’t emerge from the bunkers in the same manner as they enter. Especially those from my kingdom, who thrive in the sun.
I roll my head, splay my hands behind my neck, and close my aching eyes. Immediately see Raeve as she looked at me in the mirror’s reflection. As she told me Elluin still loved me—
My eyes snap open.
Growling, I shove up, brimming with fresh determination to keep going.
Keep moving.
Keep fucking busy.
The squeal of rolling wheels pulls my focus left to where a broad fae is pushing a cart of torches toward me. He dips his head and tips the load on the path, making a clattering ruckus that bounces off the tunnel’s lofty walls. A pile large enough for me to illuminate the next few dwellings.
“Thank you,” I say, and he raises his fist to his chest.
I’m just about to bend down and pick two up when he clears his throat, steps to the side, revealing—
“Shit,” I mutter, shaking my head as I look at Siharna—belly bulging beneath a loose twill tunic, a laden basket hanging from her arm. Siharna, over a thousand steps underground in the bunker she’s not supposed to set foot in until she gives birth, for Creators’ sake.
I open my mouth to speak—
“Don’t start with me,” she snips, eyes like hard, mossy stones.
Despite the color difference, they remind me too much of Veya when she’s busting my balls in her opinionated vice.
“You try having a youngling’s skull wedged so far down your pelvis you can barely huff a laugh without pissing yourself. ”
Creators.
“The sooner I convince him to enter the world, the better.” She hobbles forward, tossing her feather-tipped braid over her shoulder while passing the male now backtracking with his empty barrow. “Walking helps.”
Though I want to argue, I rather value my life.
She thrusts the basket at my chest.
I look down, seeing a few small loaves of seeded bread and what appears to be produce wrapped in waxed cloth. Probably meats and cheeses, based on the hearty aroma that flips my gut, the mere thought of food making me fight back the urge to vomit.
“Though I appreciate the gesture—”
“Kaan Vaegor, don’t you dare refuse me in my current state,” she growls—the sort of chastisement I haven’t had since before we lost Mah.
“I’ve walked down a thousand steps to feed your sorry arse.
Wrapped the meat and cheese with my own two hands.
It’s the closest thing to a home-cooked meal I’m capable of.
The least you can do is share a damn bun with me. ”
“Creators, Siharna. You win.” I set the basket on the path, glancing at my stone-dusted tunic and pants. Not that my hands and arms are much better, so covered in sweat and grime I can barely see my scars. “Just … let me get cleaned up a bit.”
I ask Bulder to shape a riverside bench with a supportive backrest, my voice a ravaged croak that has Siharna crossing her arms, looking at me like she’s about to drag me to the surface by my ear.
“Have a seat before you send me to an early grave,” I rumble, receiving a muttered response I can’t make out—moving down the stairs I spoke into the riverbank when I needed a drink earlier.
Away from the warm light spilling off the pathway torches, the atmosphere is cold and eerie enough to send a shiver up my spine.
Water rushes past like sloshing ink as I crouch to rinse my hands in the brisk flow, watching folk move back and forth over a nearby bridge.
I splash my face, plagued by the distant grind and groan of Bulder shifting around us, coaxed by other brown beads working other parts of the bunker, though voicing his frustrations at their sloppy dialect.
I drink from my scooped hands, the cold water soothing my throat as I stifle his song—his tone reminding me too much of times when I was small and scared, buried in a dark hole I was expected to bust free of. Or die trying.
At the time, I couldn’t understand why he seemed so aloof. Little did I know, that’s how he is with everyone at first.
Bulder honors dedication. Those who don’t take the time and effort to shape his words correctly receive the same effort in response. Like he’s weighing one’s character with each rough-hewn word.
I splash more water on my face, rubbing away the grime, thinking of the phase when I first visited this village. When I learned the secrets sown through Mah’s bloodline and found the rhythm of Bulder’s heart.
Discovered that shaping is an art form.
That very same phase, I cracked into Bulder’s stony soul and discovered a slew of words too powerful to behold. Like grasping an ancient chest brimming with lyrical treasure that’s weighed me down ever since.
Nobody should have that sort of power.
Shaking out my hands, I clear my throat and move up the stairs to where Siharna’s sitting on the bench. Brows raised, she empties the basket, unwrapping bundles of shaved meat and cheese.
I’m just settling beside the spread when she lifts out a large twill-wrapped parcel and hands it to me.
“What’s this?”
“Whatever you ordered from Luík.” She frowns down at her belly, kneading the underside with the heel of her palm as tension crimps the skin around her eyes.
“Korie was looking after it, waiting for your return to the surface so she could give it to you. Figured it was best served as a reminder the surface still exists.”
A shaft of remorse strikes me.
“Apologies.” I set the parcel aside. “Time slips by down here.”
“You’ve been at it for daes, Kaan.” Her stare brands the side of my face. “You need rest. We have many cycles to finish this. An easy task, given we’ve been so graced with your help.”
I don’t tell her I’ve tried to rest. Stolen moments between shaping rooms, tunnels, and infrastructure to lay on the ground and close my eyes. But all I see is Raeve looking at me in that mirror, telling me Elluin still loved me.
Rattling me to the fucking core.
Coupled with the fact that she’s currently taming a Moonplume, there’s no way I can grab more than a few moments’ rest at a time.
Certainly not enough to justify climbing all the way to the surface to sleep on a pallet that’ll only make matters worse, given it’s drenched in Raeve’s scent.
The very scent that lingered on my pillow well after Elluin dumped my málmr upon it and took off back to Arithia with my bleeding heart clenched in her fist. Only to bind with my brother.
Quicken with life.
Die in childbirth.
All while she
still
loved
me.
Knowing I can’t squeeze answers out of that particular stone without the risk of crumbling it—or perhaps harden it from the pressure—I shove down the thoughts, grab a loaf, and rip it in half.
“The bunker will be fully functional in two daes, with everything your folk require until the surface settles again.” I wave a piece of meat at her.
“Though you’ll need more of this for those who can’t stomach the rich river fish that get reeled in down here.
I know you’ve got hunters out, stocking up on game to salt.
Once I’m done with the dwellings, I’ll give them a hand.
” I tuck the meat into my small loaf, topping it with a slice of cheese.
“Depending on how long everyone’s forced to be below, sun starve will be a big concern for those of northern descent, used to constant rays.
I estimate half a phase before any Burn folk experience a rapid decline in health, perhaps double that for folk born of The Fade.
I discovered a vein of bloodstone that’ll help stave it off. I’ve pointed it out to Húrild.”
“Thank you, Kaan. Truly. I just wish I—”
Siharna’s sentence cracks off.
I look sidelong at her, at the somber frustration pooling in her eyes as she stares at her belly, rubbing gently.
I don’t feign confusion.